Break down, it's all right
by jackdawg
Summary: Sonic knows how to slip into guarded territory... And how to really defend it. Pair: Sonic/Shadow. One-shot; Shadow's POV. Suggestive adult themes.


~Break Down, It's All Right~

If I could only consider this an attack, I would at least have something to defend myself against. I can sense the advancing of positions. But when there seems to be no strategy behind it, it's harder to counter. It's like that with a lot of what he does.

And maybe he doesn't plan these things, either. Maybe he just acts on instinct. It's his strength, in battle and everywhere else. But I know him to get remarkably more skilled at strategy and patience when the reward involved has to do with having fun.

...I'm an attempt at creating the ultimate life form. I'm a biological weapon of mass destruction. He thinks I'm _fun_. You can't fight fools.

We're figuring each other out. Looking for buttons to push. It's turned into a game. Feels like everything turns into a game when he's involved.  
I was amazed at how much he loves being restrained. To be locked so tightly he can't move, without a chance to break free... Scares him, but also excites him. If I do it right, he goes to pieces in my arms. Often enough, I'm the one in charge. Either I initiate it, and he plays hard to get... Or he starts challenging me. He knows exactly what I can't brush off. If he wants to get me there, it always ends with me holding him down and taking pleasure from just his mock struggling. Correction... Even if we're playing around, we're both fighters, and the struggle is often real enough. But the dissent isn't.  
He could likely do the same. We're pretty evenly matched, all things considered, and I can tell he lets me get to the point where he's cornered. And at the bottom line... I'd let him, too. If he wanted. It'd be easier to stay focused - like a trial of strength. I'm at home with that. I'd still be in charge, at least of myself. But it's not half as effective as what he's doing now, and he enjoys this way a lot more, no doubt.

I was engineered with a plan; I like to regard my body as an instrument that I can achieve ends with. A tool under the control of my brain. It's a near perfect shield, and a powerful multi-purpose weapon. I had the secondary function of being a nerve tissue deposit, the key to the cure for a fatal disease striking at the nervous system. The two were combined as far as possible. I was designed to be efficient.  
And so, this instrument is fine tuned. It's made to detect the smallest of injuries, or fluctuations of energy - down to a move behind my back - and register the faintest touch even in the middle of a battle. I've actually got a very low pain threshold. The reason it doesn't show is that I learned to compensate for it through self control. Years of battle training made me good at ignoring deep cuts and burns. The harder the blows, the less I feel them.  
But I'm not that well guarded against the other end of the spectrum of physical contact. And he picked up on that all too fast.

Hands at my sides; thumbs at my front, just around waist level. He's still pretending they just accidentally landed there when we started kissing, and really, the touch is so light he could be brushing against me by mistake. But it's getting firmer, and he's falling toward my hips in steps while his tongue strokes mine gently, without going quite as close or deep as he could. His fingers keep randomly going up against the grain of my back fur, just until it changes my breathing, and then letting go and moving on down. I know exactly what he's doing, and I don't have to go along with it.  
One move from me could turn this into rough play where I'm still in control of my body. Or his. But he's inside my glove now, bare hand against my palm, sliding the sleeves off bit by lazy bit. Hell only knows how he slipped it loose from under the inhibitor; I didn't even notice. Raking his fingertips slowly down the inside of my fingers, one by one, and I gasp in his mouth and jerk my hand back involuntarily each time, because it goes straight to my insides and out every other nerve ending. With the soft tugs from his lips and tongue, and his other hand slowly moving up my spine, I can feel my head cloud over and my insides heating up. I'm going to go along with it.

They say he doesn't pay attention to details. He says he doesn't.  
Liar. I'm territory he's been before, and he remembers every damned backwater road. Next time around, he'll remember every single one he finds today. I should work up some kind of resistance by now. Shouldn't go blank just because he strokes my sides.  
My hands have ended up on his shoulders for support; his have a soft hold on my hips. Keeps his mouth just close enough that I can feel his breath; his body close enough to feel the heat radiating from it. He doesn't have to actually direct me toward the bed. Light pressure in the right places, and I inch my way there like a show horse. He can follow as if it was me making the moves.

At every step, I could break this spell. He would back off at one word. I could ignore what my body says, and keep a shred of my dignity. But he keeps turning up the volume.  
One soft push of his thumbs right at those spots above my thighs, and I fold to sit. There's still plenty of air between us while I'm slowly edging all the way back onto the bed. That blasted index finger he keeps wagging in people's faces trails down my side and the effect lifts for a few short moments, just so he can start all over again. So he can go over every sensitive inch of me, somehow naturally taking frustrating detours around the more and more obvious zones.  
Hand on my chest, naked fingers combing through the longer fur. It's not pushing me, it's resting there; I'm the one lowering myself. Not even my fur could hide the heat under it now, and the notion he'd see my face only intensifies it. But he's busy nuzzling my neck with his eyes shut, losing himself in my scent.  
He can hear me fine, though.  
Moves his hand to behind my shoulders, lifting me just a bit closer again, and I'm hanging on to him as he brushes lips against me without kissing and breathes softly into the fur behind my ear. Then I feel his warm, wet tongue along the rim of it, and I'm glad I'm not standing, or he'd get me on my knees. I'm so down for the count, if this was a fight, I'd never hear the end of it after.

And it would be so much easier to handle this, if he only got _smug _about it for a second. Just one of those smirks, even a devious chuckle, and this would be a battle. But he doesn't. He acts like a child who knows they've gotten their hands on an off-limits toy... Or a gun... And can't believe how lucky they are to see what it can do. That awe is still there when his kisses turn a little rougher, deeper, his touch more solid. I'm flat on my back now, reaching for him. There's no sense in pretending at this point, and I don't care because his nose and hands wander over my stomach, down my thighs, finally touching every last bit of me, the same exploring look on his face. Like every new area was the only one, like he's got no specific destination.  
He goes back up my side, so slow and so tight to my fur I can feel his skin on mine and each of his fingertips coursing up. Snakes his hand over my chest and shoulder and under my neck, and when he tilts my head back I forget what I'm doing or asking for, because it just feels so good to give in to myself.

I used to think he'd take any opportunity to let this on. Call it naive, or call it cynical. But he does boast about well near everything else he does. And there's plenty of occasions where comments about our relationship invited to it, in big bright neon letters. You'd think that he would feel some need to stand his own; that sooner or later, his ego would win out. Especially when the alternative is letting people go on carrying the assumption that I've got him on a leash.  
Not to mention he's got the sense of humor of a truck driver and jokes about some accounts of intimacy - he's had enough to pick from - like it was no bigger deal than having breakfast. He laughs when others joke about their... Encounters.  
But I know for a fact that he doesn't talk about my weaknesses. He gets all the usual questions, as soon as they think I'm out of earshot - sometimes while I'm still present. What I like. What I've got. If I play pitcher or catcher. The chart facts they all obsess over.  
The answer is always an offhanded variation on "wouldn't you like to know". With an undertone that says you won't even get close.

Yes, I've been spying on my boyfriend. Intelligence was my job for a while, and you can't deny it's practical to be able to teleport soundlessly. I'll admit I'm a jealous bastard without blinking.  
Which doesn't seem to faze him the slightest. Tiara once hinted to me that he, in fact, likes it when I get "territorial". Glaring people down across the room; suggesting that we leave when they start a certain kind of conversation with him. Keeping him by me when they want him a little too much out on the dance floor. Maybe he just likes to know he's got my full attention. Who knows. It's not as if I could stop him if he decided to ignore me.  
He doesn't attempt to keep people from approaching me... Though he definitely notices. He notices better than I do. Seems to take some delight in the fact I don't react to any of it. But whether he would admit to it or not, he's rather territorial himself.

I am sure that my integrity is half the reason why he keeps these things - and many others - between us. You might not think it when you only know him superficially, but he's deadly loyal to those close to him, and now I'm closer than anyone. And I'll wager he knows how I would feel if he did let someone else in on this, despite the fact I never told him. Most likely... If he did, it may not work the same way on me any more. The charge would become more painful, and it would turn bitter sweet, at best. Another battle ground.  
But I don't think he's ever needed to consciously consider that. I can tell there's another, much simpler and completely selfish reason why he won't reveal some things about me.

He once told me, there's an unspoken rule among travelers of his kind to share helpful information. Warn about countries that are hazardous or unfriendly, point out the hospitable ones or those worth the pains, name the customs you need to know to avoid conflict. Let your fellow explorers know which places are better when you need to rest, and which are uncharted territory with chances for adventure.  
And you get to hear stories of others' adventures and the places they've been. The mountains, the deep forests, some giant lake in a dead volcano... The big cities or the countryside villages. Sharing, and always, on some level, bragging. You're proud when you find something nobody else has seen, be it beautiful or dangerous.

But he also added that it doesn't matter how many stories you swap. For every country you bring up, there will still be some mountain roads, or valleys, or just a random creek in a small forest, that you never mention. Simply out of a wish to have them to yourself. He didn't use the word... But _sanctuaries_ would likely be fitting.

I think the other half of the reason has to do with that. And it's more flattering and intimate than his respect and loyalty. I'm a country full of places he doesn't want to share.


End file.
